Page 56 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

My fingers curled around the edge of the pit wall as I stared out at the track. Cars lined the grid, engineers darting back and forth in a final flurry of checks after our warm up lap.

How was it that a man with two titles could get away with dirty tactics, and I got slapped with a two-place grid penalty because of him? It wasn’t fucking fair.

I was on the verge of snapping. My car wasn’t responding the way I was used to. There was way too much fuckingoversteer, and something felt off when I was driving, but I couldn’t quite place it.

My head was a tangle of confusion just as it had been for weeks. I needed to focus on something other thanCallum, or those stupid kisses we shared, or the way my body had lit up in response to him in ways I’d never experienced before. The sex— mon Dieu— the sex was incredible.

I tried not to look at the Vanguard garage, but my eyes betrayed me.Callumemerged, chatting easily with Marco and their engineers, both wearing cooling vests as they prepped for the race.P1andP2. They belonged there, and they looked the part—untouchable and poised for dominance.

A flicker of something sharp twisted in my chest, akin to a knife. I tore my gaze from them; watching them wasn’t going to help me claw my way out of the midfield.

The beats before the lights went out always felt like the calm before the storm. My visor was down, my gloves secured, and the world outside the cockpit narrowed to a singular focus: the track ahead.

“Radio check.”

“Loud and clear,” I replied, adjusting the brake bias.

These moments between the formation lap and the start of the race were meant to steady your nerves, to prepare you for what was about to come.

For me, it was a reminder of how much ground I had to make up.

It was going to be difficult, with every driver trying to get a jump on their starting positions.

There would be no margin for hesitation.

The lights overhead began their sequence. One by one, they flickered on. Then they went out, and the roar of engines swallowed everything.

Turn 1 was carnage—locked tires, carbon fiber splintering through the air, one car late on the brakes and the rest scrambling to recover.

I held my line, darting around the melee and managing to avoid contact while grappling for position.

The car ahead of me—Morel, of course, who’d lost positions at the start—swerved aggressively, forcing me to back off just enough to maintain control.

“Keep your head down,” my engineer said calmly. “P7now. Four positions gained. Good start. ”

I gritted my teeth, my eyes locking onto Morel’s car. I wasn’t done with him, not by a long shot. He’d get what was coming to him.

Lap after lap, I chipped away at the cars ahead despite theoversteerthat was making my life a living hell.

I took opportunities where I could and held back when the risks outweighed the reward.

The tires gripped like they were finally listening.

The car was more responsive than it had been all weekend, and each pass filled me with a grim satisfaction.

By lap 15, I was runningP5, and Morel was still in my sights.

The first sign of trouble came atVarianteAlta. The car stuttered on the exit, the engine note faltering for a split second before smoothing out again. My heart sank, but I pushed on, praying it was a one-off.

“Car feels off,” I reported over the radio, my voice tight. In French, I’d have five ways to describe this. In English? All I had was off .

“Copy that,” my engineer replied. “We’re monitoring.”

I kept pushing, but the stutter came again, more pronounced this time. The power delivery felt uneven, the car sluggish in places where it should have been sharp. My grip on the wheel tightened as I wrestled with the growing realization that something was seriously wrong.

“Torque’s dropping,” the engineer confirmed moments later, his voice clipped. “Looks like a power unit issue.”

“Can we manage it?” I asked, desperation creeping into my tone. Why now?

“We’ll try,” he said, but there was no conviction behind the words.

By lap 20, it was clear there was no saving it. The car was losing speed on the straights when it should’ve been gaining, and then the stutter turned into a full-blown misfire. My heart pounded as the call came over the radio.

“Dubois, we need to retire the car. Box this lap.”

“No,” I snapped, my voice cracking when I realized that I was about to do my first everDNFinF1. “I can keep going.”

“Aurélie, thedata’sclear. If you push, you risk total engine failure. We have to stop.”

The pit wall came into view, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to keep going, to fight through it. But the car didn’t respond, its protests louder than my determination. I veered into the pit lane.

Climbing out of the car felt like swallowing defeat whole—total, undeniable, crushing. The crew avoided my gaze as I pulled off my helmet, my breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Fuck!” I snapped. I wanted to scream like a child, to rip off thecommsheadphones and hurl them across the garage, but I forced myself to stay composed.

“We’ll look into it,” my engineer offered quietly, his tone gentle. I couldn’t bring myself to respond, couldn’t even look at him as he placed a hand on my shoulder before retreating.

From the screens in the garage, I watched the rest of the race unfold, my blood simmering in anger and frustration.

The rain had begun falling, turning the track slick and unforgiving.

Cars skidded through corners, some drivers thriving in the chaos while others floundered and crashed.

Kimihad worked his way fromP7toP4, which was a miracle with how everyone was driving out there today.

Rain did have a tendency to level the playing field, though.

I should be out there . A glance over my shoulder showed the crew looking over my car and discussing. Dammit.

Callumand Marco dominated the race despite the rain, their Vanguard cars flawless as they flew through the laps, alternating fastest lap times. Morel was aggressive as ever, clawing his way back intoP3. Marco held him at bay with clinical precision.

WhenCallumcrossed the line inP1, his victory was undeniable. The Vanguard garage exploded in celebration, drowning out even the cheers forKimi’sP4—his best finish this season. And still, it felt hollow. Even though for a midfield team, we were kicking ass.

But my solemn mood hung over me like a too-tight helmet—pressing, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave, even as the Vanguard team of mechanics raced out into the pit lane to celebrate.

I should be a good sport and go congratulateCallumand Marco, but I remained where I was.

My gaze lingered on the screen televisingCallumclimbing out of his car, his arms raised in triumph. The joy on his face was evident by the look in his eyes.

He was surrounded by his team, drowning in the chaos of victory—their hands slapping against his shoulders, cheers echoing around him. His helmet hung loose in one hand, his breathing still heavy from the race.

And yet, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. His body turned—not toward Marco, not toward the cameras—but toward theLuminisgarage. Toward me.

I stepped out of the garage, my eyes falling to him to confirm what I’d seen on-screen. I gave him a small congratulatory smile, then he took a half a step toward my part of the pit lane. I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge it.

Then his attention was pulled elsewhere to celebrate his victory, and the absence of it was a reminder of the gulf between us, both on and off the track.

I thought of how I’d felt when he called me his, bit my inner thigh, touched me like he’d die if he didn’t.

I’d spent all this time convincing myself it was nothing, but the way he looked at me now?

It wasn’t nothing. And for the first time, I wasn’t focused on the driver I wanted to beat.

I was thinking about the man who looked at me, like I mattered, like he was waiting.

This may not have been how I imagined my first race inF1atImola, but if there was one thing I knew, it was how to fight back.

Tomorrow would be a new story for me as a driver.

But today? In my personal life, hope was on the horizon, and it all came from that one look from him. It wasn’t fleeting or casual. It wasn’t some accidental glance through the crowd.It was deliberate. He was looking for me.

For me.

I let myself wonder… if I went to him, right now, would he welcome me with open arms?